Istvan died two years ago in September from cancer. He had been hospitalized for almost a whole year. He was battling with the disease for so long and he never let faith fade away in his life. 

I think about him a lot. He was about 30 years old. He has been serving in the military but eventually quit because the Hungarian political system became something he was not able to relate to. I looked up to him because he thought that staying true to oneself and believing in justice is more important than giving up yourself only to achieve something on material levels. 

He always wanted a mjölnir tattoo and was a fan of Scandinavian mythology. He was dreaming about so many things he wanted to do after defeating cancer. He wanted to be a pilot because he loved planes and had tons of books about the mechanics of planes and all. He considered himself a fighter and he was. He was happy. He was unhappy. He was sure and concerned. He was alone and crowded with people. He was so complex. He was so good.

I miss him. I miss him a lot. But I don’t speak of him and nobody cares or understands that I miss him a lot. 

So do I think if you Isti?

Just a little bit. 

Do I imagine our conversations over and over again?

Just a little bit. 

Do I regret not visiting you at the hospital because you did not want me to see you the way you looked at that time?

Just a little bit. 

Do I want you back?

Just a little bit. 

Have I ever imagined that you would be irreplacable?

Just a little bit. 

Still. Just a little bit. Especially when the weather is cold.